The Exiled Prince Trilogy

by Jeana E. Mann

  “Is this for business or pleasure?” I asked.

  He snorted. “It’s always both. Why do you ask?”

  “I’ll need to make sure you have the right clothes.” I kept my head down to avoid staring at his handsome face. “Will you be traveling alone?”

  “No.” His fingers drummed a restless beat on his immaculate pants. “You’re coming with me.”

  14

  Roman

  Jose opened the car door and nodded in greeting. The first thing I saw was a long stretch of feminine calf, nude peep-toe pumps, and delicate pink polished toes visible through the opening. I followed the line of her legs up to a narrow waist and high, perfect breasts. Silver sunglasses hid her eyes, but there was no mistaking that mouth. I’d dreamed a hundred times of fisting my hand in her hair and ravishing those pouty lips. Cinderella’s lips.

  No wonder Nicky had been having fits. She’d been in front of me this whole time. I’d been a fool not to see it before. The stupidity stung my pride, and it served me right. I’d been too arrogant, too selfish, too absorbed in my problems to look at her, really look at her. For most of my life, I’d run over the people beneath me, using them as tools to further my personal agenda, discarding them when their usefulness abated. At first glance, she’d been a nuisance, another dim-witted assistant, someone to serve my needs. I shoved a hand in my hair and hesitated before sliding onto the seat.

  The blue of her dress highlighted eyes the color of a hot summer sky, and those lips… I shifted in the seat to ease the pressure behind the fly of my pants. Her hair was darker and shorter, and she’d gained a few pounds in all the right places, but there was no mistaking that mouth. And I’d been a total and complete ass to her from the start.

  Inches separated my knee from hers. The heat of her body radiated up my leg, escalating my torture. We stumbled through some inane conversation while I tried to get a grip on the current situation. I found Ivan’s number in my contacts and dialed. He answered on the first ring.

  “You must think you’re pretty smart,” I said, my eyes glued to Rourke’s face.

  “Ah, so you finally figured it out.” Amusement brightened the cadence of his speech. “I wondered how many days it would take before you dragged your nose away from your computer long enough to see that your mystery woman has been in front of you all this time.”

  “I’m glad I was able to entertain you.”

  Rourke shifted in the seat. The hem of her dress hiked up her thigh. I closed my eyes and swallowed, remembering how it had felt to be between those legs, how willing and wet her pussy had been for me.

  “It’s been a delight,” Ivan said. “And to think you tried to fire her on the first day. Classic Roman. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “What lesson is that? Not to trust you anymore?”

  Rourke tugged her skirt down toward her knees. Her skin glowed with good health and a hint of summer sun. Desire twitched my fingers. What I wouldn’t give to run a hand up the inside of her leg, up her thigh, to caress that smooth flesh.

  “You must have gotten a good laugh,” I continued.

  His heavy sigh gusted against the phone. “Grow up, Roman. It’s time.”

  The phone call ended in a dial tone. He always had to have the last word, in every damn situation. I placed the phone back on the seat to finish charging and stared at Rourke. She’d replaced her sunglasses, cutting off access to her expressive eyes, and stared out the window. Now that I knew who she was, I couldn’t get enough of her. I drank in every inch of her body, her legs, her face. My princess was sitting in the limousine across from me, and there wasn’t a freaking thing I could do about it without courting a sexual harassment suit.

  “What did you do while I was gone?” I asked.

  “Um, well, I spent some time with Ivan learning self-defense, and Julie got me up to speed on your email accounts. We set up a tentative list of tasks, subject to your approval, and—”

  I cut her off with an uplifted palm. “No. I mean, what did you do outside of work?”

  She brushed her hair behind her ears and pursed her lips. “I had lunch with a few friends and went shopping for clothes.”

  I burned with jealousy at the thought of her laughing and cutting up with people who knew her better than I did. What would it take to win her over, to become one of her trusted circle? After showing my ass to her, the probability seemed slight. Even if I managed to overcome the hurdle of my bad behavior, I’d have to fire her before I could fuck her, because I never screwed my employees.

  I stared at her, contemplating a new and disturbing thought. Did she know I was the man at the masquerade? If she knew, she’d done one hell of a job covering it up. I studied her closed posture—arms barricaded over her chest, legs crossed and pointed away from me, the serious line of her mouth. The more I stared at her, the more I wanted her. She represented the ultimate challenge, a woman who didn’t want me. However, I always got what I wanted. Always. And Rourke Donahue had just become my next conquest.

  15

  Rourke

  For the next seven hours, I tried to anticipate Roman’s needs while avoiding conversation, and he made a noticeable effort not to insult me. During his time in London, something had shifted in his demeanor. Sometimes I caught him watching me, pensive and brooding, brows lowered. Other times, he stared openly, and I had the distinct feeling he could see straight through my clothing. Most of the time, he ignored me, which I took as a blessing. The less interaction between us, the less chance of him recognizing our previous acquaintance.

  At the end of the day, we went straight from the office to an elegant country club for a dinner meeting. I welcomed the buffer of other people to ease the tension between us. His brooding blue eyes threatened to get the best of my composure. And I couldn’t afford to let him get to me.

  When the waiter attempted to pull out a chair for me, Roman motioned him aside and slid the seat beneath my legs. The unexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture took me by surprise. Until today, he’d barely acknowledged my existence. I gave him a tight smile, avoiding eye contact, and tried to calm the butterflies in my belly.

  Roman’s guests arrived on our heels. The scent of old money clung to their conservative clothes and cool stares. I forced a pleasant smile but felt it slip when the woman turned to face me. Her delicate features, black hair, and large bosom were shockingly familiar. This was the woman from The Devil’s Playground, the one with the elaborate plumed mask.

  “Ms. Donahue, I’d like you to meet the Weavers—Henry and Deborah,” Roman said.

  The man smiled and shook my hand. The overhead chandeliers glinted off his bald head. Deborah’s gaze flicked over Roman’s hand on the back of my chair. He cleared his throat and dropped his hand, curling his fingers into a fist.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said, but they’d already turned their attention to Roman. Despite my years as a personal assistant, I’d never gotten used to the glass wall separating me from the upper class. Everly had always treated me like a friend and family member. But her business colleagues and acquaintances had not. Most of them ignored me. None of them made eye contact. Their censure irritated more than it wounded. I didn’t need their approval to bolster my self-confidence, but a little common courtesy would have been nice.

  “Darling, you’re looking wonderful.” Deborah tried to air-kiss Roman’s cheeks, but he stepped away, leaving her lips pursed in midair. I stifled a laugh.

  After everyone was seated, the waiter opened a bottle of wine for Roman’s approval. The conversation drifted from current events to sports and, finally, to vacation hot spots. I couldn’t concentrate with Roman’s knee brushing mine beneath the table every few minutes. My senses went into a state of hyperawareness. Every shift of his body, every rise and fall of his chest, sent arousal flooding through my veins. Why did he have to be so handsome? Despite an overseas flight and back-to-back conference calls, his gaze remained predatory and sharp. I marveled at his ability to
focus when I could only think about ruinous castles, masked strangers, and sex, sex, sex.

  “We spent the summer in Ibiza last year,” Deborah said, in a pronounced Bostonian accent. “The beaches were amazing. The people were beautiful. You should go there, Roman.” The patronizing smirk on her red lips raised my hackles. She patted my hand. “If you’re lucky, maybe he’ll take you with him, sweetheart.”

  Throughout the meal, no one had addressed me directly. Her touch brought me back from the depths of Roman’s blue eyes. I swallowed, aware that I’d been ogling him, and scrambled to gather my thoughts.

  “Have you been to Ibiza, Rourke?” Roman dabbed a napkin to his full lower lip. My gaze locked on his mouth. Memories of his kisses consumed me, the taste of his tongue, the softness of his mouth. “What do you think? Is it worth my trouble?”

  “Ibiza is lovely but a little too crowded for my taste.” I took a sip of wine to clear the erotic images from my head before speaking again. “You might like Anse Source d’Argent in Seychelles better. It’s quiet and peaceful. I’d love to go back again sometime.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, her tone disbelieving. “I’ve never heard of it. I suppose we’ll have to check it out, won’t we, Henry?” Her gaze turned to her husband.

  A sip of wine went down the wrong pipe, and I sputtered.

  Roman thumped my back. “Are you alright?”

  “Yes.” I cleared my throat and tried to look anywhere but at the couple across the table. Visions of the woman in the grand hall, her arms and feet in restraints, bent over the velvet bench, burned the backs of my eyes. The man pounding into her had not been her husband. Did he know? Did he care? Adultery under any circumstances made my stomach queasy.

  “I haven’t had a vacation in a very long time,” Roman said. His hand returned to the back of my chair. The tips of his fingers brushed my shoulder. A frisson of electricity jolted up my neck. I shivered. He withdrew his hand to his lap. The muscles of his jaw flexed.

  “Maybe Ms. Donahue will be kind enough to arrange a visit for all of us.” The woman’s sharp gaze noticed my reaction to his touch. Her mouth turned down. “Henry and I enjoy your company. We haven’t spent nearly enough time together this year.”

  The proprietary bite of her tone was unmistakable. A new and disturbing notion soured the taste of dinner. I dropped my fork to the table and nodded to the waiter. He removed the plate with white-gloved hands. Had Roman been involved with this woman? Something in their easy demeanor confirmed my suspicions.

  “Have you vacationed together before?” I asked, directing the question to my employer.

  “Roman has been kind enough to invite us to his home in London for the past few years.” She stared at me. Did she recognize me? I ignored the unpleasant notion and kept my gaze trained on Roman.

  “Like I said, I haven’t had a vacation in a very long time.” The line of tension between us tightened until I couldn’t breathe. “But I enjoy opening my estates to business associates and friends. Just because I don’t have time to enjoy them doesn’t mean they should go unoccupied.”

  “You’re generous beyond words,” Henry said, joining the conversation once more. If he’d been bothered by his wife’s statements, he didn’t show it in expression or tone. Maybe he approved of her indiscretions. Maybe he liked to watch. Heat raced up my neck, raising my temperature to the point of discomfort.

  “Have you been to the London manor yet? It’s quite exceptional.”

  “Um, no. I’ve never been there.” The lie soured on my tongue.

  “Really? Are you sure? I could have sworn I saw you there in the spring.” The weight of her stare burned through me. I stared back, unblinking, refusing to be intimidated.

  “This is only my second week with Mr. Menshikov.” I twisted in my chair, desperate to escape this line of questioning. She knew.

  “Enough idle conversation.” Roman gestured for the waiters to clear the first course from the table. “Let’s talk business.” Without looking in my direction, he dropped his napkin on the table. “Rourke, I don’t think I’ll need you tonight after all. Have Jose take you home. I’ll catch a cab later.”

  The abrupt dismissal stung. I blinked but nodded. A smug smile flitted across the woman’s face. With stiff movements, I pushed my chair from the table and stood. “Thank you for dinner. Good evening.”

  I walked to the door, feeling humiliated and raw. Maybe this job had been a huge mistake. The walls of my throat constricted. I swallowed back tears. Why was I so emotional? I wasn’t Roman’s date. I was his personal assistant. If I wanted to succeed in this position, I needed to remember my place. Knowing his identity changed everything.

  16

  Roman

  I had to send Rourke away. For the past hour, I’d been in a constant state of arousal. Our thighs kept bumping into each other beneath the table. Every brush of her knee against mine sent blood rushing into my cock. My balls ached and my temper simmered. The knowledge of how it felt to be inside her proved to be a major distraction. I needed to be on my game during this meeting, something I couldn’t do with her sitting beside me.

  “She’s nice—plain—but sweet,” Deborah said, her dark gaze roving over me as Rourke exited the dining room.

  “Yes, lovely girl,” said her husband.

  Like always, his words echoed his wife’s sentiments. The poor man didn’t have one thought to claim as his own. Deborah was the brains behind their enterprise. Her wit and intelligence had attracted me when we first met. Back then, I’d had little respect for the sanctity of marriage. Milada’s mother had seen to that. Time and maturity had changed my feelings on the topic, however.

  Deborah’s eyes narrowed. “How long will she last, I wonder? She doesn’t seem to have the backbone necessary to put up with someone like you.” Despite the teasing quality of her tone, the words stung. They sliced into my soft underbelly, catching me by surprise. She placed a hand on my forearm. “Should we place a bet?”

  “I’m in for a thousand.” Her husband’s eyes brightened. “I give her a week.”

  “This one is different, though.” Deborah studied my face. I stared back at her, wondering why I’d ever found her poisonous personality attractive. “I give her a month. And let’s make it two thousand, shall we?”

  I shook off her hand and dropped it into her lap. “You’re skating on thin ice. Both of you.” Although Rourke and I had gotten off to a rocky start, the need to protect her from needless ridicule consumed me. The color drained from beneath Deborah’s fake tan. “If you’re trying to coax additional funding out of me for your project, this isn’t the way to go about it. To avoid any future misunderstandings, my employees are not for your amusement.”

  “Since when do you give a crap about your employees?” Her observation made me straighten in my chair. She and her husband both shifted away from me. “The old Roman used to love a good wager.”

  “My behavior back then was irresponsible and callous.” Beneath my bravado, I knew she was right. The number of personal assistants left in my wake proved it. “I’ve learned from my mistakes. You should do the same. Now, are you done wasting my time?”

  She rolled her lips together and dropped her gaze to the table. Fear flickered in her eyes. “I apologize. We were only trying to have a little fun.”

  “Not at my expense or Ms. Donahue’s.” I let my words sink in for a few seconds before shifting the topic to business. Maybe I’d been an ass to my former assistants, but I could do better. Finding my Cinderella had changed everything. I had to improve or risk losing her forever.

  In the limo the next morning, on our way to the office, Rourke sat across from me, the picture of self-restraint and cool composure. I pretended to scroll through emails, but watched her through the veil of my eyelashes. She uncrossed and crossed her legs, sending a shockwave of need into my groin. To make matters worse, her amazing scent, clean and citrusy, filled the car. I shifted to ease the stiffness behind the fly of my trousers. Wi
th her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck and her blouse buttoned to her chin, she looked like an uptight schoolteacher—a sexy, needs-a-good-fuck schoolteacher. In another life, I would have pulled the pins from her hair, popped the buttons of her blouse and tested her limits in every dirty way possible. Instead, I settled back in my seat and blew out a frustrated sigh.

  “What?” A pink tide crept up her neck. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. It was inappropriate to stare, but I couldn’t stop wondering if she had a boyfriend, if she dated, if she’d ever been married. I wanted to ask but it was none of my business.

  “Your outfit—I approve. Very professional.” The color intensified to a dusty rose and settled in her cheeks.

  On her first day of work, my assessment of her wardrobe had been harsh but absolutely necessary. In my line of work, appearances meant everything. The minute I stepped into a boardroom, judgements were made and opinions formed. If I showed up for a multi-million-dollar acquisition dressed in worn shoes and shabby jeans, my partners would question my competence. This business existed in a game of smoke and mirrors, and I’d become an expert player.

  The limo rounded a corner. Rourke extended a hand to keep her balance. The shift in movement caused her straight black skirt to hike above her knees. She tugged on the hem and crossed her legs again, drawing my focus to her smooth skin and the freckle above her knee.

  “Thanks. One of my friends is a stylist. He put together a wardrobe for me.”

  He? A prickle of jealousy lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. Who was this guy? How long had they been friends? Dozens of questions lingered on the tip of my tongue. Before I could devise an appropriate way to inquire, her phone rang. She picked up the call. My ears perked at the sound of her smooth, soothing voice. I liked listening to her talk.